MINOR IRRITATIONS OF LIFE – THEY ALL ADD UP

I recently went to the Inn on the Park in Bow. It was a Saturday night and it was dickhead central. Skinny jeans and jaunty haircuts, vintage clothing and ‘look-at-me’ egos running riot.

We’d been travelling for a quite a while and I was parched. There were a handful of people at the bar and I stood patiently waiting for my turn. But that turn never came.

Because the barmaid, dressed like something out of 1952, kept serving all of her mates, choosing not to adhere to the general pub rule of ‘thou shalt serve people in order’. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with us – she’d just waltz around with her clown make-up and self-importance, occasionally larking around with her fellow bar-staff all of whom were as cunty as her.

People who walked into the bar some ten minutes after us were served without a problem, and as more and more of these Shoreditch clones breezed in full of arrogance and class A drugs, the rage inside me took over.

Why should a trip to the local end up pissing you off? Why can’t barmaids, barmen, landlords and landladies just do their job without trying to earn points off people who enjoy wearing tweed? It’s a simple job, how can it be so easy to fuck up?

Next time I’ll stay at home with some tinnies. Match of the Day and some Magners is far more enjoyable than socialising in a sea of arseholes.